You don’t move out of the way for a man carrying groceries.

It’s the truth, apparently.

I’ll keep it short and sweet, I’ve got a Brooklyn Pale Ale with my name smeared across the melting frost on the bottle. After that, it’s finally time to be loading up my new blog venture with Iceland Commeth; which is going to be a crap ton of ranting and raving and BSing my way across time and New York City as I prep for my 600 mile journey across Iceland, alone.

So,around 9:05 PM tonight after my Documentary Filmmaking class, I head into the Gristedes Supermarket over on Sheridan Square and W 4th Street. It’s kinda the rim of the asshole that’s the 6th avenue/Christopher Street junction. Here, Goya products are considered ‘International Food’, right alongside Annie Chun’s All Natural Asian pop-in-the-microwave cuisine… the baking aisle consists of nothing but boxes of Yellow Cake Mix, Marshmallows, and Perrier… the grime manages to blend melodically with the dirt on the week old Butternut Squash… and whenever you shop for doritos or salted pretzels you’re surrounded by advertisements picturing happy people like these scooping chunks of salsa out of wooden bowls:

‘Chips are great.’

I’m the RA on Duty for Thanksgiving so I’m in charge of cooking a meal that’s to satisfy all the residents who weren’t able to go home for the short break. I wish I could complain, but I sincerely love it. I get a budget of $200 and get to show off by making absolutely anything I want. So, I’m going to… and tomorrow is going to be an onslaught of posts hour after hour as I figure out another brilliant, arbitrary, try tryhard something to come up with; maybe a parable or metaphor comparing moist meat to how badly I wish I had a head the shape of Channing Tatum or something of the sort.

So, I’ve paid and I’m on my way home. It’s only a short, five block walk home, but it involves cruising down Christopher Street. For those of you who aren’t aware of what Christopher Street is… past Sixth Avenue to the River, at least… it’s just a very tight road with very tight sidewalks. The police set up flood lights after every block to ensure that every part of the street is illuminated. Transvestites, Bears (not the Yellowstone variety), and yuppies stroll up and down, drunkenly weaving bar to bar, Bear Bar to Bare Bar and back again. If every street had a vibe, the vibe of Christopher Street is definitely along the lines of, ‘someone is checking out your thighs. Don’t know who, but they are.’

So I venture into the deep and I must say, I was really kinda enjoying how many people did not move out of the way for me as I lugging all this crap down to the dorm. Granted, I wasn’t expecting them to stop what they were doing and ask if they could help me out, but eventually, snapping ‘move.’ or ‘I’m not carrying anything at all, don’t worry‘, became old news and beyond therapeutic. For a second, I figured that maybe there was something I could’ve done in an effort to avoid a hassle, like wait a couple seconds or walk around them. But it ‘s sexy feeling like you’re the important person in the area every once in a while. Carrying grocery bags automatically makes you that guy. But now I can’t rest easy because no one moved out of the way. I need to get my priorities in order.



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